


you for yrs me for mine

by greenonions



Category: Everything Everything (Band), Foals (Band)
Genre: Cigarette Sharing, Everything Not Saved Will Be Lost part 1 tour, Face-Fucking, M/M, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Syrups, Unresolved Sexual Tension, no capital letters we die like cummings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 15:51:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19154158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenonions/pseuds/greenonions
Summary: you spend most of california trying to write it off as nothing. he certainly doesn't bring it up again, even though you're sure he can't possibly be ignorant of it, an unbidden tightness in your hips, gazes you leave too long because you barely notice you're doing it at all. it's been years since compulsion has driven you to chew your own tongue bloody, but you do it, just once, somewhere between los angeles and san diego.foals' spring 2019 tour. jeremy pritchard's oral fixation.





	you for yrs me for mine

**Author's Note:**

> look, someone needs to stop allowing these two men to [touch each other](https://imgur.com/W0xLUB6) or [instagram each other](https://imgur.com/a/J0vXwob) or to [interact in any way](https://www.instagram.com/p/BuEzzoznDbM/) because they are far too spicy to LIVE. THE HEIGHT DIFFERENCE ALONE, FAM
> 
> standard RPF disclaimer: This is make-believe and pretend and for fun, not intended to defame or to represent reality; and also please do not in any way make the people in this fic aware that it has been written. 
> 
> title is from the original draft lyrics for Syrups, as posted [here](https://www.instagram.com/p/Bu3oEQNHaxe/)!

**1.**

you wake up to thick, roaring cottonmouth, and a pang in the right side of your neck that can only mean you've slept somewhere you shouldn't have. it's taking you twice, three times as long to come to your senses as usual because you are so profoundly hung over. you take stock.

double handfuls of people were pushing drinks into your palm, some you understood the contents of, some you absolutely didn't but couldn't find it in yourself to care about; it's the launch of a tour, of an album, and you're so fucking proud of your brilliant friends, and honored to be along for the ride, and if that means the drink is flowing freely to you then far be it from you to turn it away. there are no gaps in your memory from it, truly, just pieces jumbled out of sorts that you have to string back together in the proper sequence, to figure out how many drinks (too many) and how many joints (not quite enough) and how many kind words, back-to-back with how many piss-taking jeers, how many ill-thought-out but harmless decisions of how you wield your physical body in its space, have led you to _here_ , this moment, asleep on - you remember now - kit's sofa, wringing wakefulness back into your limbs, which, again, seems to be taking longer than normal. too long.

yannis philippakis is asleep on top of you, your legs mostly, his slack face pressed into your thin shirt against your ribcage, his shoulder lodged in your stomach. your legs, and your right arm where it's been pinned to the back of the sofa, dead numb beneath him. your cock, mortifyingly, rather more awake. because yes, it's first thing in the morning, and there's four fucking tons of snoring greek dead weight pressed just so against it, blood-warm and tangible after an already adrenalined night, but for _fuck's_ sake.

you inhale and then exhale at length, unimpressed, and try to keep your body steady, unjostled, because yannis is asleep but not for long. you know he'll wake the instant something's out of place around him, an eager-anxious jungle cat, and you'd like to have ploughed your mind and body through a solid eight to ten minutes of imaginary cold shower by then. it's bad enough that there's absolutely no way bevan doesn't already have a photo snapped of you two sleeping in a pile like this. you'd prefer not to add insult to injury.

yannis, of course, wakes.

he's drooled some into your shirt, and he drags his beard through it as he stirs, scratching just enough through the damp to catch on the sensitive skin beneath. you can see it in the furrow of his brow and the flutter of his heavy lashes, his own version of the rubik's cube of last night slotting into completion, and then a wicked grin breaks out across his mouth as he realizes just where he is, just who and what he's sleeping against. he rises up slightly, propped either side of your hips on the sofa on his hands, messy curls hanging between bunched shoulders, eyes crawling up to meet yours. 

"had a bit of a night there did we, jezza," he says, casual as you please. 

just as casually, deliberate but without preamble or fanfare, he plants one hand fully over the tent in your trousers. gives your whole cock a cup and a squeeze with his whole sleep-clumsied palm, a quick tousling little shake at the end, and then pulls away.

then he stands from the sofa and shuffles in the direction of kit's toilet, scratching an itch low on the small of his back like a cartoon of a filthy man, gone from your sight in seconds. you blink at the ceiling twice, three times as long as you mean to, then roll over, on your side and then nearly to your stomach, curling semi-fetal in the wake of your pounding head and roiling gut and throbbing cock. you lick, desperately, across your own teeth; the cottonmouth is worse. 

\------

**2.**

and from now on, you feel burrowed into. 

you spend most of california trying to write it off as nothing. he certainly doesn't bring it up again, even though you're sure he can't possibly be ignorant of it, an unbidden tightness in your hips, gazes you leave too long because you barely notice you're doing it at all. it's been years since compulsion has driven you to chew your own tongue bloody, but you do it, just once, somewhere between los angeles and san diego. 

you feel it more acutely in the desperate, boiling wet heat of south america, so close to the equator that "end of summer" means nothing. you tan in the sun, as does he; jimmy sort'f thinks about it; ed and bevan flee from it as powerfully as they can; absolutely all of you sweat clean through your clothes, whether you want to or not. sometimes, it means you can see more sharply the dense, curved lines of his compact body, thick-bunched shoulders hulking through the damp. the concept of _his body_ burrows into you, too. 

still, it's his hands it comes back to.

you think sometimes you can still feel the entire five-fingered shape of him curled around you from that morning. your mind can transpose it anywhere, if you're looking at him, and remembering, and working your jaw around saliva, around nothing, around all the fucking wintergreen gum your rider can provide you. your set is nearly an hour-since over, in brazil, and some of you have been caught up by some more resilient fans, but you feel the energy they're emitting so clearly painting you not as jeremy pritchard, but as _not-walter_ , and most of them are after yannis. so you hang back, unmolested, and watch him (and ed, and bev) gamely indulge the five or six of them, and watch him sign a few autographs with a borrowed sharpie, and watch his hands move around the shapes of his own half-formed famous-person signature with graceless abandon, and watch him, and watch him. you feel burrowed into, the geometric shapes of his hands something your brain won't stop reminding you it's intimately familiar with, for some fucking reason. not your brain; your body. you swallow hard, your mouth yearning for a smoke. you swallow the gum you forgot you were chewing. 

the blunt, guitar-wrecked hands you are watching hang a little loose, and then suddenly form a middle finger, covert, but so clearly in your direction. it startles your eyes to his face, where he meets your stare, then fully looks you up and down from head to toe, and then cocks his head in a deliberate little gesture, an inscrutable message that you nevertheless completely understand. caught.

no, he's certainly not ignorant of it is he. he's too fucking clever for his own good, and has been. 

but you film a whole music video and you go to colombia only to zoom right back to new york and he never says a goddamned thing, so maybe - it is nothing. a different kind of nothing than you thought, but still not anything at all. a burrow is hollow, after all, an emptying of space, and just because it's been dug out doesn't mean anything will get put back in. 

relatedly, there really, truly, just is _no_ private way to wank off on a tour bus. 

\------

**3.**

the thing of it all is, everything just seems _wilder_ in america. or maybe wilder isn't the right word; but there's some element of lawlessness, as if everyone fully understands that the stakes here are lower, the consequences of your actions fewer. you certainly smoke more weed in america. yannis certainly jumps off more venue balconies into the frothing crowd. 

(you watch as he leaps, every time. you know he's got a bit of a fear of heights, he's spoken of it easily on more than one occasion, but he does it anyway, and trusts he'll be caught, because america is fucking wild. you watch, a song earlier, as he wades out into them, striding on a sea of grasping hands, and you watch him hold steady on unfailing legs, and you watch the thick muscles of his thick thighs keep his balance effortlessly, panther-coiled power, and your mouth waters, and you watch him.)

between shows in washington, you've got a little bit of a free day, and to be honest you all mostly spend it sleeping off your hangover - you and jim especially were _profoundly_ stoned the night before, with bevan not far behind you, and you decide to put off most of your tourist shenanigans till tomorrow, using today for r-and-r and then a quick and dirty rehearsal. there's been talk of folding snake oil into the setlist soon, and they need to make sure you and kit have got it squared away just in case. you linger on a few more songs, too, speeding up what's dragging, amping up what's falling soft. you run, electrifyingly, through syrups.

\--for all of your recent distractions, this song still fucking takes you out of yourself. you don't know what it _is_ ; sure, it's a blissfully chunky bass groove they've handed you, but it shouldn't feel like this, you don't think. you shouldn't still remember what it felt like the first time you played it, _really_ played it with the whole team - like the slide of a hot drink down your throat into the pit of your stomach, but crawling instead from your fingers and up your wrists, throbbing in your tendons, your biceps, till your shoulders are rocking with it. you imagine that some kind of intravenous hard drugs you'd never fuck with might jolt your blood through your arms like this. it's the best you ever felt playing a bassline you didn't write yourself. even now, two months in, the shine is barely off it. 

he knows it, too; he never truly gets to watch you do it when you're in a show, but in rehearsal, just the gang of you, he's all eyes, and you feel hot with it on the back of your neck, turned _on_ , not like sex but like a kilowatt lightswitch flipped. and a little like sex, too, honestly. you clutch the bass low and close to your hips so you can feel it. when it's through, he calls the practice. 

and some hours later, you're on the shit balcony of your hotel room, having a desperately-needed smoke, when the door to the adjacent balcony slides open and he's there across from you. his shirt is fully unbuttoned and hanging loose around his chest. he looks like he's here for a smoke, too, but as far as you can see he doesn't have a cigarette.

"you fuckin' love that song, don't you," he says after a moment or two, eyes hooded and impossibly black in the low light. you don't have to ask; you know he means syrups. your tongue feels thick and useless with all the things you want to say about this _fucking_ song. you take an uncomfortably long pull of your smoke to fill the space, fill your mouth. fill where you're burrowed into. 

"yeah," you finally manage, "it's a fuckin' great tune. great bass," you mumble into another drag, "so cheers, for that." 

he leans on the railing, not facing outward but the one to the side that's just inches from your own. you stare, just a split-second too long, at his hands, his wrists, the tight muscle and bone roiling under the ink-black octopus there. you imagine, just a split-second too long, sinking your teeth into its tentacles and sucking a bloom of blood to the surface of his skin. _fuck_. 

"yeah, well, it was always meant for you anyway, so," he says.

you blink, stupidly, and turn to face him more fully. "what?"

"what if I told you," he says, with a warm wet note of _don't make me say it again,_ "the bass in that song was absolutely written for you to be the one, playing it for us?"

"I'd say you're absolutely full of _shit_ ," you tell him. 

"but what if I'm not, though?"

you let yourself entertain this fantasy for just a moment. they knew wally was gone, that no matter who wrote what, who played the part in the studio, they'd still need someone, a physical body on stage every gig, to knock the bass out live. and you'd sort of been in the talks for that from the get-go, so it's not impossible you were on his mind in the studio, as the album built, as syrups became a gloriously bass-heavy song, at least on the front end.

it was always going to have to be somebody. what if it _was_ always....? 

you scan his face for any sign of bullshit, but there's none to be found, and whether that's because he's sly and cat-coy as always or because it's _true_ , it's impossible to say. all you know is you suddenly seem to be so much closer to him, just the railings of your two balconies and the scant foot-and-change of empty air between separating you from him, unmistakably in each other's space, and as you stand just a hair dumbfounded and try to puzzle it all out - _the syrups bassline for you, that spicy vein-boiling rolling riff that grinds up into a frenzy for **you**_ \- he reaches up and plucks the cig from your slack lips, pressing it full-palmed to his own mouth and sucking in a long, tight drag, which he exhales out away from you, his adam's apple bobbing heavy with it, just once. you trace every single motion of it, his mouth around the smoke where yours just was, his tight hands, the black scratch of his working throat. his eyes fall back on you when he's done, and it feels a lot less like you've been caught staring, and more like he's letting you because he's doing some staring of his own. 

eyes fully locked with yours, deliberate and slow, he puts it back into your mouth. his hand, the hand your body has memorized, lingers there _just_ so, thumb resting heavy on your lower lip, catching slightly as your spit grows tacky there in the chill april air because you've absolutely stopped breathing. your eyes flutter shut and you nearly _sob_ at the effort it takes every fiber of you not to just suck his whole thumb up into your mouth. he drags your lip open a bit as he pulls away, on _fucking_ purpose, and the cigarette tumbles out and falls down between your two balconies, drifting down and away, storey by storey.

"trust me, jez," he says, a broad sliver of a grin, and he's ostensibly still talking about what he said before, the bassline, convincing you, but also he is one hundred percent absolutely in no way talking about the song. 

he slips back into his hotel room. you dare to expect him, moments later, to be knocking at your door instead, but of course the knock never comes. you light up another cigarette, and this one you smoke all of yourself, all the way down to ash. 

\------

**4.**

america stays wild as ever, but if you're honest - the energy of the crowd at your show in ohio is absolute shit. he's stretching and straining against it, a drowning man gasping at the sky, working himself ragged trying to pull the audience into any sort of high-bright spirit but getting absolutely nothing back until the whole thing is less a communion, more a chore. it's the worst show in the states so far and the worst show he could possibly be playing on his fucking birthday. instead, after, you have to make your own fun. (oh, and you make it. you remember thinking, on at least two separate occasions, I hope we even make it to missouri after this.) 

you take care to keep enough wits about you, of course, to fall asleep far apart from him, to avoid the dramatic irony of a repeat experience, or worse. still - you're half-expecting (half- _hoping?_ ) that maybe the birthday boy himself will...demand something of you, joking-but-not-at-all, as the special gift he deserves, that sort of thing. but he doesn't. he doesn't say anything, still. after all of it. after the whole drunken night spent watching him shamelessly, watching his hands curl obscene around long-necked bottles, watching him from over the shape of your own bottle tucked against your teeth just to feel something there even though it's empty, watching him. after the balconies in washington and every night since then, watching him. still he's said nothing. still the other shoe remains aloft. 

something has felt stranger yet about it, of late, now that you think about it, and it takes you till chicago to figure out what it is; it's another yawning pit opening up around you, like the hollowed-out empty ache within. he's not touching you anymore. 

it's - the whole band has an easy habit of casual, thoughtless physical contact, swept up in music or passion or both and crashing shoulders together or splaying hands on chests before you even think of it. your lot does it too, alex craning into you over guitars roaring deep into a middle-eight, you reaching out for jon at the end of my kz. mickey, god, more than any of them. it's nothing new to you to fall into it here, too, and yannis gives into it the most freely of all, and it doesn't _mean_ anything, never has, especially not anything like the stone-cold white-hot deliberate intent behind the thing that's been thrumming up and burrowing in between the two of you. you've never given any weight to these laddish shoves and brushes, because why would you? 

until they're gone.

until the only feeling of his hands against your body is imaginary, is the images and sensations and caresses you spool together in your weakest, thirstiest moments, when just a plectrum between his fingers looks like the luckiest bastard going. until he'll squeeze edwin on the shoulder, or headbutt jim in the small of the back, but you suddenly can't remember the last time he was even close enough for you to smell his aftershave. until the carved out space inside of you is a gaping cavern; your bones feel hollow, your mouth unendingly bone-dry. and you can trace back to when it began, easily now: the balconies, in washington. over a week ago. that night, when you thought, surely this was the breaking point, surely this was the moment ripe to be seized, and something will come of all this mess at last. surely after laying it on that thick it could only mean he was going to put an end to this blind-eyed limbo state, the gap between your balcony and his, the chasm between your body and his. but instead - nothing. several disparate kinds of nothing. more nothing than ever before. 

it's unquestionably intentional, which means it _means_ something, which means you yet again have to try to figure out what in hell is going on inside of yannis philippakis's head.

which means - here in the ol' wild, uninhibited u.s. of a - there's a fair chance you end up doing something quite, quite stupid. 

where are you now - minnesota? you barely keep these middling states straight even with the fever dream tour under your belt now, this country is just so big, so boundless. you're in you-think-it's-minnesota and you're halfway through what went down. crew comes out to relieve him of his guitar and you're watching him, and he climbs down off the stage, a tiger stalking his prey, and the prey is a good time. he steps onto the crowd's upstretched hands effortlessly, and they take him, and the muscles in his legs bunch and flex, thighs tight and unafraid. the power there, and his coiled core, and his biceps bulging at his rolled sleeves, his hands gesticulating sharp at the rowdy horde to whip them to frenzy, his hands clutching the microphone, his hands. you are just as enthralled as the rest of them. how could any of you look away? 

and then it's two steps, and you're watching him vanish into the pit and blink back onto the balcony. he's ready to go again, one more dive for probably-minnesota, and he calls them all to him, makes them pay attention here where it counts - absolutely nobody is looking at _you_. no one's eyes are still on the stage proper, where jim is bopping over to share your microphone for the rallying cry of the remaining vocal, more the background music to yannis's high-flying stunts than anything that feels like a real song to you anymore. you taste jimmy's breath mingling with yours on the one mic, and he gives you a silly wink. you wink back, half-arsed, but you, like everyone, are looking at yannis. no one is looking at you two.

except he is. 

you feel his eyes lock with yours, just a bullet-time flash, and that's when you do the stupid thing: 

confident that no one will see or make anything of it, other than the person who's meant to, you twist your head just so and lick your tongue halfway into jimmy smith's mouth. like, just for a second. and you can't see yannis's black, black eyes in the riotous venue lights, and you don't even know if this was the right move to make but you just very suddenly had to do _something_ , (and jim is whispering a giggling, befuddled _what the fuck?_ to you where the mics won't pick it up,) but there's a fraction, a fraction's fraction of a second before yannis jumps where - you know.

you chug the rest of your beer as they buoy your boy safely back to shore, and swallow the moment up with it. that's one step. 

\------

**5.**

after. you stride into the greenroom and he's already there, and you are blessedly, beautifully alone with him, but you can hear someone in the greenroom toilet so you've got approximately four seconds. you stop short, some feet from him still, and wait for his eyes to rise and lock with yours. they do. he doesn't move.

your teeth catch on your own bottom lip, and you exhale animal-sharp. "look, if you want something to come of this," you tell him, with all the certainty you can muster, "stop being such a - stop teasing it, just come straight out with it, alright."

"if _you_ want something to come of this," he says, retaliatory, _full_ of certainty, never more cat-with-canary - "why don't you come and fucking get it, jeremy." 

you plunge across the divide between you, rake your nails back through his beard, and pull his whole face up to yours to kiss him. you're both drenched in sweat, and you feel it through his palm when he smashes his hand into the small of your back to keep you tugged close, you taste it from every pore of him as your mouth devours into his, searching, seeking, consuming. you come to understand the burrowed-in, carved-out space inside of you as not an emptiness, not a hollow, but a hunger. you kiss and mouth at him, and he meets you move for move, hard, hot, _blatantly_ sexual, hands grasping and hips nocking closer, and you keep _going_ , dragging lips and tongue and teeth along every inch of him you can get them on, biting into his lower lip, sucking up as far as his beauty mark and whining out pathetically through your nose but just yes, yes, _yes_ , he's here beneath you now and you've got to swallow him whole.

when the toilet flushes off to your left you make yourselves peel apart, and there's a spidersilk trail of saliva still stretched between his lips and yours for just a second after, a moment suspended. he stares at it, at your mouth, inky dark lashes fanned out low over his gaze before he raises it to meet your eyes instead. you're half-hard, half-panting. you are just barely far enough from each other to approximate normalcy when edwin shuffles out of the toilet. 

yannis mutters, "fucking oral fixation," a smirk and a shake of his head. your whole jaw is one euphoric ache.

he makes your excuses later. you're all holed up in the hotel ready to bed down for the night, but he's mumbling something about leaving his phone charger in the bus, and a few moments of pretense after he disappears down the lift, you do, too. it's embarrassingly transparent from your perspective; but the rest of the lads either don't notice, somehow, or notice entirely and have decided not to care. (jimmy hasn't even mentioned the thing from earlier.) frankly - you'll take it. the skin of your lips and the pads of your fingers are still vibrating at the frequency of the number of seconds that have ticked by since the last time you were touching him.

when you catch up, he's already lit up a cigarette, leaning casually against the far side of the second bus. or - it approximates casual. it would fool someone else, someone who hasn't been staring at him for weeks. you make it for what it is - not as tense and as nervous as you are, but tense. nervous. 

you cross to him, put your hand over his hand over his mouth, lower them both to your sides, take the cigarette. your skin sings where it touches his. you lift the cigarette to your lips.

no. you lift his empty hand to your lips. as you trap the ball of his thumb between your teeth, suck the salt and muscle of him there, blood rocketing, tongue hungry, you drop the cigarette to the ground. 

"fuck, jez," he breathes, and then he drags you inside of the bus. 

you're on each other instantly, kissing and clutching, cock throbbing and surging at every jostle as you stumble in. you curve one hand into the coarse stretch where his jaw meets his neck, wrap the other tight around the strongest part of his arm, squeeze the muscle, feel the power in it. you taste nicotine on him as you curl your tongue ravenously around his and along the roof of his mouth. he bites your lower lip _hard_ and you cry out, which sends his hips stuttering into your thigh, and yours canting back in tandem toward his hip and his waist. jesus, _fuck_ you never think about how much smaller than you he is, but you certainly are now, the pieces of you slotting together so curiously, his hands more comfortable at the small of your back or lower, and god, as you - pivot-walking the two of you backwards, craning your neck sideways and down to kiss and lick your starving way into his mouth, misjudging the distance and slamming him a little too hard into the wall but if the moan he makes is any indication he kind of _liked it_ \- as you loom over him now, trapping him between the wall of the bus and the length of your body, nearly a foot on him, you feel - powerful. for the first time in this whole messy interplay, you feel like you've got the upper hand. 

"yannis," you growl, mouthing all across his face and neck, returning to his lips for a deep and dirty proper kiss as your hips begin to pick up a regular, driving rhythm against his body. you're knocking him into the wall just slightly with every thrust, but he's got plenty of power in his thick thighs to meet you motion for motion with it, and you can feel the fat shape of his cock hard in his trousers, burning-brand against your own thigh where it's slotted between his. his fingernails rake up your back over your thin t-shirt, then down and then back up and down again along your arms. his hands. you can feel them _everywhere_.

you can feel them, suddenly, between your two bodies, plucking at your waistband and then his own, indecisive. you take the hint and help him, freeing your cocks into the dark air of the bus. his is just as deliciously thick as the rest of him, as it felt through your clothes. uncut. _wet_. yours, longer and thinner, aches toward him. he rests his head against your chest and you rest your cheek against his curls and you both watch transfixed as with a steady, deliberate hand he wraps up both of your cocks and slides them slickly together. you _quake_ with it, just once.

"jesus christ, jeremy," he pants. you nod against him in agreement. and then it's too much; you have to move, and you rock your hips toward him again, driving your cock along his through the tunnel of his hand. god, it's _good_. it's exactly what you've been waiting for the whole time, watching his hands, watching and remembering that first night at kit's place, watching and dreaming and staring and hungering and watching. you lick your lips, and thrust into him again, and again, and again. stars go spangling across your vision. _god_ it's good.

he hums into your shirt, his beard scratching along the fabric, just like that first time. "you're massive, y'know," he says. he lets his own cock slip from his grasp and focuses, for a moment, on just you, hand wrapping and curling in a blunt, merciless grip, tight around the shaft, rolling looser as he cups the red wet head of it. you have to brace yourself on the wall above him, one arm pressed wrist-to-elbow just beside his head, one hand grounding you clapped to his working shoulder. your breath huffs out ragged and raw from the molten heat pooling in your gut and your balls and your mouth. "fucking knew it from that first time. hung like a stallion. hot as _fuck_." distantly, your brain makes the leap of logic from _stallion_ to _foal_ ; that's all the further the joke gets, because he runs the flat of his thumbnail up the vein on the underside of your pounding-hard prick and you nearly white out, body _heaving_ toward his, pitiful and desperate. 

"please," you whimper. 

"please what?" he teases. you don't even fucking know please what. 

he does, somehow, of course. he lines his own cock back up alongside yours for another few thrusts, digging into his hot slick shaft and the dense palm of his hand, and then pulls his hand back, drags his first two fingers through the slick leaking from your cockheads, and raises it expectantly to your mouth. you don't even think before you're acting, sucking both fingers greedily past your lips, bobbing and tonguing between them, tasting the two of you and then, before long, just him, his callused skin underneath. your eyes rolled shut at some point, which you realize only when you blink them open, confused, because he's stopped moving. 

"fucking knew it," he says again. "you've gotta be amazing at sucking cock." 

you furrow your eyebrows just the slightest, because, well.

he slides his hand loose and curls it instead into the hair at the back of your neck. "oh, jez," he says softly. there's a brief frisson of tenderness behind his dark, heavy eyes. the burrowed-out space inside of you aches for him. 

\--then it's gone, and when the hand at your neck pushes hard _down_ you fold easily, eagerly with it, dropping to your knees at his feet and pressing your face into his stomach. you're still too tall for this - you have to shuffle back, bend down, you feel the crick in your neck forming already, but then yannis philippakis's cock fills your mouth and it's - the fullest you've ever been. you suck up a huge breath through your nose, the deep scent of him here at his dark core like plunging into a fog, and you nearly come right then, untouched. he keeps one hand at the base of his shaft to feed it into your mouth and slides the other into your hair, front to back, to dig in and guide you. you don't need to be told twice.

you move your lips ( _"shit, teeth"_ ; you course-correct) slow and slick around the thick length of him, up and down - more down than up, those deep parts of you still itching to swallow him whole. the power in his hands is undeniable, heady, and the taste of him is _intoxicating_ , spurring you forward, wetter and sloppier and yes, yes, _yes_. you don't _stop_ , even when his smooth head is clipping at the back of your throat and you think you'll choke on it, even when you do choke on it, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, but he's circling his hips in the tiniest aborted movements and moaning out _fuck, jezza,_ and his hands, now twisting your hair between his fingers, now sliding down to trace the pad of his thumb around the ring of your lips where you're sealed tight around him, _fuck_. your eyes roll back in your head. you want his whole dense, filthy body inside of you. you want it to be good for him, too.

yannis, you realize, isn't the narrator in his songs, but the subject. he is the ocean and the fire and the rain, he is the dark seductive city streets at midnight, he is the maddening wild predator and you are caught here, seduced, drenched and lit alight. he holds your head steady and fucks into your mouth; you dig your left hand into the meat of his thigh, steal your right down to rub and jerk erratic at your own cock. you're awash with him, burrowed into and refilled. you want him to come in your mouth. he's definitely going to come in your mouth.

"shit - fuck - " he cups your jaw and holds your head still, and slides half, more than half out away from your lips, till just the shining head of him is resting on the dip of your tongue. your yearning mouth stays parted around him, and you turn your gaze up to meet his, dark eyes gone glossy with delectable animal arousal. he tugs his own cock once, twice, three times, his shoulders shaking in a familiar convulsing heave, and you can see sweat pouring from his hairline and spattering to the bus floor below you, and then he's _done_ , and he's streaking your open mouth with white, spills onto your waiting tongue and lips and a bit out onto your chin. you lick it all up, hungrily, and are still working on swallowing when he yanks you to your feet again and kisses straight into it, tasting himself, tasting you tasting him. 

he yanks your hips hard into his own, seeming desperate for you to finish now too, and with his trousers down to his knees now it's easy enough to find a hot, sweat-slick crevasse of him to rut yourself into, the juncture of his hip and thigh - and, _god_ , thinking about fucking his thighs, with his come still lingering behind your teeth, that does it. you sink your face into the curve of his neck into his shoulder and come all over his softening cock, moaning out just once, and then nearly collapsing to a heap on the floor, soiled and satiated and _spent_. leaning into him, leaning into each other, keeps you aloft. 

there are several long, lush beats of silence before he says, "holy fucking shit, jeremy pritchard."

you couldn't agree more. 

you do your best to clean one another up and put yourselves to rights with what's available on the bus. it's a passable job; but if the gang upstairs wasn't fully aware of what was about to take place when you made your exit, your re-entrance will certainly blow your cover. there is some small comfort in knowing you will have to perform this walk of shame together. no small part of that is knowing that yannis has very, very little shame. it's bolstering. you don't talk, don't even touch each other in the lift, but his small secret grin stretches all the way to his eyes, and he drinks you up with them, staring, watching you. 

and you walk back to the hotel room...strangely. your limbs feel heavy, but manageably so; there's an unfamiliar, loose-knotted feeling within you, like the creak and shudder of an old house settling, a fear and a thrill and a satisfaction all at once. it slides down through your veins to fill all the burrowed-into parts of you in a thick, liquid crawl. there on your tongue, it tastes syrup-sweet.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading! ♥ please stay in touch if this is your brand of spicy, I need all the cohorts I can get LOL


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